The Moody Blues
by MaethoMixup
Summary: Mood rings are bullshit. Nothing more than fancy thermometers wrapped in silver. Everyone knows this. But as Ichigo soon discovers, everyone is wrong. Or: Ichigo finds a mood ring, loses it, and discovers a few uncomfortable truths on his quest to steal it back from Grimmjow fucking Jaegerjaques.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N**: The idea of Grimmjow wearing a mood ring is just so freaken hilarious to me so of course I went ahead and made it a thing. Not even a crack thing, just a full on Thing with a capital T and everything.

Huge thanks to my wonderful friend and beta, MaraX6960, whose support has been so amazingly helpful and motivating. I really can't thank him enough! And the cover art was done by me!

I hope y'all enjoy this as much as I had fun writing it!

-.-.-

**The Moody Blues**  
By MaethoMixup

**Chapter One**: from where the sun now stands

-.-.-

The gacha machine Ichigo slots his coins into is stacked between a dozen other identical devices outside the arcade closest to Karakura High School, where he's stuck waiting for classes to finish.

He doesn't need to be here. Hollow activity had calmed since the war's end three years ago, and his sisters definitely didn't appreciate their older brother hovering over their shoulders as if an attack was imminent every time they left the house. But on Thursdays they let him walk them home after ensuring that none of their new friends were near enough to witness his coddling. Their words, not his, because he doesn't _coddle_. He guards their souls from becoming Hollow snacks like a good brother should.

And he's not overprotective either — their other favorite descriptor. He's the exact right amount of protective and they both damn well know it. They hadn't experienced the worst of the conflicts, but they'd lived through it regardless. The creatures that go bump in the night have names and faces they're all familiar with now.

Ichigo twists the handle with more force than he'd intended, hearing the gears creak under his fingers. He's only doing this because they're ten minutes late and if he doesn't occupy his hands with this, he'll snag the closest vaguely weapon-like object and track them down looking like a madman. He has enough sense to realize that knee jerk reaction is born from paranoia instead of logic. They likely have club activities they'd forgotten to mention. Or Karin got detention again. Or they're being chased by a hungry hungry ghost hippo and —

He only barely stops himself from kicking the machines in front of him. Both he and Karin are stronger now, stronger than when the Grand Fisher had attacked them at their mother's gravesite. Any threats they come across can be swiftly dealt with either through the use of his shinigami powers or by any one of the many trinkets Urahara provides for the twins. They're not helpless. They can protect themselves.

It doesn't stop him from worrying. He knows what will happen if an enemy is too strong or too quick or if help is too far away.

Taking a deep breath, Ichigo focuses on the capsule that had rolled through the flap, picking it up with deliberate care. It hardly matters what prize he'd won, and he's not curious, but he needs the distraction. He peels off the tape slowly and pops it open.

If he'd had any expectations, a mood ring certainly doesn't meet them. It's a pretty thing, made of metal instead of the usual PVC plastic he's accustomed to finding in these. Ichigo assumes from the quality that he's lucked into a rare collector's item the one time he hadn't gone for an action figure. Typical. He slides it onto his index finger and watches the white stone swirl into an ugly purple.

Which is interesting, but without an instruction manual he doesn't know what it's trying to signify. Probably that he should've worn short sleeves. He hazily recalls these working based on body temperatures, and on the tail end of spring, grabbing the first clean shirt off the pile by his bed without stopping to see if it was weather appropriate was dumb. The fabric under his arms is soaked uncomfortably with sweat.

He scratches the back of his head, angling his nose close enough to his armpit to see if he smells as bad as he must look, immediately thankful he hadn't forgotten deodorant this morning. Unfortunately, his maneuver isn't as inconspicuous as he'd hoped because his sisters greet him with a chorus of giggles.

"You're a mess," Karin says, hiking her bag higher onto her shoulders. "Is this the first time you left the house today?"

He doesn't dignify that with an answer. "What took you two so long?"

"It's only been like fifteen minutes. Relax." She hooks a thumb sideways at where Yuzu stands, face buried in a stack of papers. "The student council cornered us. They're trying to convince her to join their cult."

"It's not a cult," she's quick to admonish, not looking up. "The treasurer position is opening up. They want me to volunteer and I figured since I balance dad's checkbooks already…" Yuzu shrugs, hunching further into the papers to hide her embarrassment.

She's excited and, for whatever reason, unsure if she should be. It's cute, and Ichigo can't resist ruffling her hair loose of its ponytail, laughing when she swats him away with an undignified squeak. "You should do it. You'll do great."

"You think?" she asks too quickly, brown eyes wide and hopeful. "If someone else volunteers too we'll have to hold a mini election and that's basically just a popularity contest, and. Well, I've got friends, but I'm not, like, _known_, you know?"

Karin snatches the information packet from her, waving it just out of easy reach. "Then we'll start a campaign, obnoxious glittery posters and everything! We can even borrow that old mascot costume Ikumi stuffed Ichigo into last year and have him hand out flyers!"

"Like hell I will," he says, but doesn't doubt for a second that Karin has blackmail prepped and ready if she deems it necessary. Her grin confirms it.

"More importantly," she continues, "Ichigo, did you get proposed to?"

He flicks her in the forehead. "Wrong finger, idiot." She uses the movement to grab his wrist, pulling the ring closer to inspect. "It came out of a capsule."

Yuzu shuffles forward too, poking the stone like it's a button and frowning when it proves nothing out of the ordinary. "Huh. Isn't that a bit too fancy for one of those?"

"And what does purple mean?" Karin asks.

Ichigo shrugs, rescuing his hand from their prodding curiosity by swinging his arms around their shoulders, dragging them away from the arcade. They've been standing still for too long. This is a conversation they can easily have behind the safety of closed doors and a layer of wards.

"Come on," he urges. "You two can plan your school-wide domination at home. It's too hot out here."

They both give his armpits a disgusted glance, so he doesn't let go of them until they reach the Minamikawase district, bathing himself in their righteous teenage anger the whole walk there.

"Men are disgusting!" Karin declares upon opening their front door. She throws off her shoes and stomps upstairs, Yuzu following her with an apologetic glance backwards.

He sniffs himself again and, yup, that had to have been torture. _Deep Sea Glacier_ wasn't designed to disguise musk that potent.

Isshin peeks his head under the clinic's archway, a granola bar hanging precariously from his mouth. He points the wrapper at their retreating backs. "You teach them that?"

"Sure did, pops."

He nods, almost to himself. "That's my boy."

* * *

Ichigo wears the ring for a week before his suspicions set in.

The stone center fluctuates between purple and orange and he can't pinpoint what differences it's detecting to warrant either color. His temperature theory, supported by every online article he's been able to find, was busted the day he forgot to take the ring off before showering. The following ice cube experiments he'd conducted in the kitchen confirmed it: this isn't a knockoff thermometer.

His next hypothesis involves spiritual energy, perhaps sensitive to his innate Reiatsu, but when he used the badge to expel himself from his body, letting a plume of soft blue steam from the vents in his wrists, the ring stays a stubborn lavender. The only significance to note is that Grimmjow comes barreling through his window not long after, drawn like a knight to danger. Or in this case, a bored soldier to a potentially fun situation.

He surveys the room from his crouched position on the floor, tensed and ready to spring into action, jacket flared dramatically around his boots in a pool of white cloth and illuminated only by the fading light of his cero and a desk lamp. His posture deflates only after Ichigo snorts at his ridiculousness.

"The fuck you laughing at?"

"You missed the party. Shame, too. Half of Soul Society was here poppin' bottles and doing body shots." Grimmjow's frown deepens so severely, Ichigo snorts again. "That was a joke, lighten up. Nothing's going on here."

"Don't bullshit me. I'm not blind," he says, stretching to his full height and moving towards the bed. Ichigo's human body lays on top of the comforter, dead to the world without Kon there to animate him. He runs two fingertips across his pulse point and up to cup his jaw, delicate. Gentle in all the ways Ichigo never expected from a once enemy.

It should worry him, letting this man touch his prone self. Ichigo almost anticipates bruises dotting his cheek when he pulls away, but the skin is tan and unblemished, sporting only the patchy five o'clock shadow he hadn't bothered to shave this morning.

Years ago, he would've assumed this was a hallucination. Still resembles one. A strange, feverish quality laces past memories to the edges of this scene, overlapping wrongly because this is new even if Grimmjow's presence here isn't. Hasn't been for some time, with his insistence on weekly spars. Only the angry wrinkle between his brows remains familiar.

This feels closer than they've ever been, and Ichigo is only witnessing it from across the room.

Grimmjow looks between the two versions, huffs, and settles his glare on his shinigami form. "Hurry up and explain so I can murder you. I'm not wasting a trip here."

"That's not particularly motivating," he points out, but gestures to the ring anyways. "I have no idea how it works, all my tests are duds. Ever see anything like it in Hueco Mundo?"

Grimmjow holds out his hand, making grabby motions when it takes Ichigo a second too long to understand. He peels it off and he drops it into his palm. The stone fades to white as soon as it's free.

Ichigo probably shouldn't be shocked that Grimmjow's first instinct is to bite the damn thing, but he feels his jaw fall open regardless. "Dude, what the fuck."

He doesn't answer, too busy holding the metal at eye level, rotating it to examine the intricate twists in the band. There's no inscriptions to be found; Ichigo has stared at it enough to have every groove memorized, long since resigned to the fact that a manufacturer label wasn't going to magically appear. Grimmjow's eyesight is better than his, but it can't make miracles happen either. There's no visible clues here.

"What is it?" Grimmjow finally asks and doesn't wait for an answer before slipping it onto his pinky. His hands are thicker than Ichigo's own, he notices for the first time, marveling at the flex of tendons until a flash of pale orange catches his attention.

"Looks like a mood ring, but the only colors I've seen are orange and purple," he explains. "It might be broken."

"Mood ring, huh?" His brows furrow further downwards, and maybe it's the intensity of his expression, or maybe his too blue eyes are miracle makers after all, but Ichigo watches in fascination as the stone's hue deepens into a peony pink as if on command.

Or maybe it started working now just to spite him, because Grimmjow's haughty smirk is infuriatingly wide, half hidden by the sharp teeth of his mask. "Works fine for me," he says and fucking preens as the color continues to shift, darkening into a green shaded like a forest, vibrant and complex in its beauty.

Ichigo dives forward and grabs him by the bicep, mollified when he wrests the ring off without resorting to true violence. His bedroom is too tiny for two grown men to do anything more than snarl at each other. When he pushes it back onto his own finger and sees a loud, burnt orange mocking him, he quickly tugs it back off and throws it across the room. "Piece of _junk_!"

Grimmjow laughs and it nearly makes him rethink his stance on homegrown aggression because he's two steps away from spilling blood across his carpet, furniture be damned. He reclaims the ring from the floor without a stutter, wears it like it was made for him. Eyes Ichigo with enough arrogance to make him feel wrong footed, unsure if he's being toyed with here. It would be a characteristically asshole move to know what the hell this hunk of metal does and purposely keep Ichigo ignorant of it.

"What's wrong, baby boy? First time being rejected?"

"Fuck off with the nicknames already," Ichigo says, _again_, because Grimmjow has only gotten worse since he'd began regularly running errands for Urahara. He doesn't blame the older man for corrupting him, despite it being likely. Knows that Grimmjow picked the habit up on his own after the first time he witnessed Ichigo's annoyance. "What are you even doing here?"

He shrugs. "Saw you lighting up from across town. Figured I'd join in."

"Knew you were the type to bum a smoke," he says and ignores Grimmjow's confusion. Ichigo wasn't going to take responsibility for teaching an arrancar about cigarettes. "Better question: how'd you sense my Reiatsu? We have a barrier masking the area."

Grimmjow makes a face like he'd said the dumbest shit he's ever heard. "Your old man keyed me into them. Like a fucking year ago."

"What the fuck," he says. It's beginning to sound like a mantra. "Why?"

His face doesn't change, but the stone has, back to a curious pink. "Why should I know? Ask him your own damned self." He shoves past Ichigo to get to the windowsill and swings a leg onto the mattress, pausing at the sight of a pair of knees blocking his path and sneers at them. Like they're an affront to his morals, the humanness repulsive when only minutes ago he'd caressed the coarse stubble decorating Ichigo's jaw.

This is more in line with his expectations, so it only confuses him further when that bubbling frustration melts into an expression he can't place, shadowed by the poor angle of the lone light shining from his desk. Grimmjow gives him an expectant glance. "You coming?"

Ichigo doesn't need a piece of jewelry to tell him what Grimmjow's gunning for, even if the rest remains a mystery. He cracks his knuckles, steps beside him. "Hell yes. Usual place?"

He nods, and off they go, sprinting through the streets of Karakura towards the outskirts, punching and slicing each other until they're both black and blue and too exhausted to stand, ring firm on Grimmjow's pinky the entire fight. Green as vibrant as the puzzlegrass they'd overturned.

Ichigo manages to get it back before stumbling home. He doesn't put it on, tells himself it's not because he's afraid. Of seeing orange. Of _not_ seeing orange.

If emotions truly operate it like he's beginning to suspect, he doesn't want to imagine what these ambers and violets indicate. He knows himself well enough to acknowledge they can mean nothing good. He knows Grimmjow less, but the sea of lush wildlands coloring the stone when he wears it is intensely beautiful, demanding of attention not unlike the man himself. Brazen and impossibly defiant with every swipe of his fist, every twist of his mouth around insults and nicknames and those devilishly sharp canines as he growls out Ichigo's name like it's the worse curse of them all.

He curls deeper into his comforter, Kon sleeping blissfully unaware beside him now that midnight has come and passed, and stares at the ring sitting on his bedside table like it's a spider on a web, waiting for unwitting prey. Or a panther, he thinks, prowling through the underbrush with a deadly gleam reflecting through the trees.

He'll worry about it tomorrow, he decides finally, and rolls over.

* * *

Three days later, Ichigo finds himself dragged past a white van and into Urahara's shop by the crook of his elbow, Karin leading the way. "We're back!" she yells.

Hefting a wood-slatted crate down from one of the built-ins, Tessai nods at their entrance. "I'll get him."

"No need!" A hand clasps around Ichigo's shoulder from behind, fingers pressing into his collarbone in a friendly squeeze before releasing. Urahara sweeps by him smelling of cloves and smoke and he smiles at the siblings warmly. "I would never miss a visit from my two favorite customers!"

The storefront, with fully stocked shelves stretching towards the raised genkan step, is otherwise barren of people. Ichigo leans back through the archway to peer at the street. Empty. "Do you even have other customers?"

"Business is booming," Tessai assures them as he walks around a partition and into the storeroom, but Ichigo has his doubts. Booming could mean anything from an increase of window shoppers to an influx of gigai orders from their special clientele, and while he knows the latter is likely profitable, it doesn't explain the rows of questionable candys and overpriced produce. He assumes Urahara is price gouging the hapless fools of Soul Society as petty revenge for believing in Aizen's lies for as long as they had.

Consequently, the quiet of the shop isn't unusual, but Ichigo can't help himself from straining his ears, expanding his senses. He pushes one of the sliding doors open enough to peek at the living spaces beyond. "Where's Grimmjow?"

"My, my. So eager to see him," Urahara says, voice a singsong lullaby of baseless assumptions. "Am I not enough to satisfy you?"

"You know you're not," Karin snickers into the soft plush belly of a stuffed bear. She's made herself comfortable on the step, legs extended forward. "He was all _'I need to go with you, Karin'_ and _'We need to hurry, Karin'. _Impatient, as always."

"The hell are you two trying to say?" he asks, because she's ignoring the purpose of this trip: to restock her supply of Hollow repellents. Coddling accusations be damned, he refuses to let her stroll across town unprotected.

Urahara waves him off with a flap of his fan. "Fear not, he will return from Las Noches soon enough. His task is hardly complicated."

"That's what you said last time, too. He was gone for a month."

"Good materials are hard to come by," he bemoans, like Ichigo actually cares how gigai are made. All he's curious for is the reason why Grimmjow goes along with his shenanigans. "And I did apologize, if you recall. How was I supposed to know that the kiseki mineral deposit had already been acquired by another hopeful entrepreneur?"

"Uh-huh," Karin hums. "That sounds like corporate sabotage."

"Nothing so scandalous as that, I assure you. Though I'm flattered you hold my humble shop in such high regard." He snaps his fan shut with a slap of his palm. "Now, what brings you two here today?"

Karin throws herself back onto her feet. "Just stocking up!" She speeds by them both, disappearing into the storeroom too. There's a loud clatter, the sound of something heavy thumping onto the ground, but Tessai's voice remains even toned so Ichigo only laughs at the closed doorway.

When he turns back to Urahara, he's busy assessing him from under his hat's wide brim. Waiting.

Ichigo stuffs his hands deep into his pockets, feeling awkward beneath the knowing scrutiny. "Just, uh." He scruffs his foot against the woven straw of an tatami mat, shrugging. Refuses to look him straight on when he mumbles, "You know, the usual. Curious about what's been going on over in Soul Society with the, uh. Rebuilding, or whatever. Rukia has been too busy to keep me updated."

He doesn't admit his last three texts have been left on read. He doesn't give voice to the fears telling him that history is repeating itself, that his seventeen months without powers, without friends, was a precursor to his life to come. His destiny. Fated to be a substitute in every way that matters.

"Oh dear, you haven't heard?" Ichigo's head snaps up, presses the badge against his palm on reflex, not yet pulling it from his jeans. "It's dreadful! Tetsuzaemon was promoted to Captain of the seventh division!"

"Damn it, Urahara!" he groans. "Don't make it sound like someone died!"

"And Lisa, too! Eighth division!" He sighs heavily, exaggerated to the full capacity of his lungs. "They were all so young when I was a captain."

"Everyone's young compared to you, geezer."

"Come now, no need to exaggerate. I'm as spry as a spring chicken! Just ask Yoruichi." Ichigo makes a face that Urahara casually dismisses. Probably for the best. He doesn't need those details. "Is that all?"

Ichigo pulls his hands out, twists the ring around his finger and contemplates asking for his opinion on it. If anyone has answers, it's Urahara.

Taking a deep breath, he opens his mouth, begins to speak before he takes the time to look. To actually examine the ring and the stone at its center, glistening an innocent morning dew blue, the first sign that Ichigo isn't stuck in some hellhole of two warring emotions and it's _blue_.

He doesn't need a manual for this one. The empty, lonely pit hollowing his chest is clue enough.

"Karin!" He's panicking. He knows he's panicking even as the nauseous itch sinks into his gut and whirls dangerously low, preparing him for an enemy he can't fight with his fists. "Hurry up!"

"I'm almost done!" She rushes out with her bag overflowing, oblivious, looking hopeful at Urahara. "Do you have any poster board? Yuzu and I have an election to win!"

For a long moment, Urahara doesn't shift his gaze away from Ichigo, but when he does his eyes crinkle, his smile forced. "Oho, politics! Let's check the van, we may have some suitable paper hidden there." His hand finds the small of her back as he ushers her out the door. He peers over his shoulder, eyes flickering to the ring and then past him, says, "You stay here, Ichigo," before they're out of sight.

He can't ask if he knows, or what he knows. The words are clogged in his throat. Loneliness gnaws on him like a starving predator, teeth sharp, jaw locked. Flashing images of a spider's fangs, a panther's claws where the metal band constricts around him.

It makes it impossible to breathe.

It's hard not to miss Soul Society and all the people he had fought beside. There, he's respected. When he speaks, they listen. His words have meaning. His sword, his powers, his experiences — in a realm of allies who had seen everything he was and could be, they had been thankful for his existence, even if only begrudgingly, and protecting them had given him a purpose. A goal to strive for.

But without a battlefield, the door is closed between them.

Here amongst the living, he's just another man still living at home, working odd jobs and sleeping at odder hours.

Here, he has friends, but they're only one half of everybody he cares about, and both halves are moving on without him. Whether it's college or promotions or travelling the world, they're no longer within arms reach of Karakura.

The sliding doors bang open. Ichigo gasps in a shocked gulp of air.

"Kurosaki! I know you're here!" Grimmjow yells, throwing a leather case to the side. The last licks of his garganta flicker out of sight behind him, melting from inky darkness to fluorescent light. He pauses with one foot stuck in the air. "Why do you look like you shit your pants?"

He makes a show of sniffing the air, grin a feral stretch of teeth like there's something to offend him other than the random assortment of foods lining the shelves. Flaunting his opinions with a disgusted, ludic scrunch of his nose, implying Ichigo to be incontinent on top of whatever other flaws he sees in him. Then he notices the ring, eyes alight and fixating on the view. "Would you look at that?" he asks, a mocking laugh fluttering throughout. "Carrot-top knows how to be something other than orange."

"Shit, Grimmjow. Fuck," he hisses. Ichigo hides the evidence inside his pockets again as if Grimmjow hadn't already memorized the color of his imperfections. Like he can still hide himself from being known. "I thought you were busy being Urahara's good little errand boy."

"I pay my debts, Kurosaki," he says, real slow. Real mean, edged with a warning. He takes a step closer and seems to put two and two together the longer he glares. "The fuck has you _blue_? Jealous of my good looks? Trying to copy me?"

He runs a hand through the side of his hair and Ichigo traces the movement, watches the strands fall back into place. Grimmjow does it again, for emphasis, in case Ichigo's too dumb to understand his version of comedy.

Ichigo understands it just fine. Grimmjow, on the other hand. He doesn't know what's happening with him right now.

The third time Grimmjow does it, he's frowning. "My hair's blue," he says. Explains like Ichigo needs him to. "You get your ass beat by some shit tier Hollow while I've been away? I can knock the sense back into you. It'd be my goddamn pleasure."

"No. I don't," he attempts to say around the cotton wool stuck in his throat. Tries again, "I don't need your help."

He sounds weak. Feels it, too. Lost without a villain to use as an excuse.

Maybe this is why Soul Society's moved on without him. They knew all he's good for is war.

Grimmjow's jaw snaps shut sharply as if he's swallowing down his first reaction, sour enough to contort his features cruelly. His nostrils flare. "I pay my debts, Kurosaki. I don't give a fuck if you want me to or not." He gets closer, boots stepping on his toes, fingers jabbing into his chest hard enough to stumble Ichigo off the step. "The offer stands."

Then he's gone, slamming the doors shut behind him as he stomps through the living quarters. The wood rattles around the wicker panels.

"I remember my first lover's spat," Urahara says with a wistful sigh, suddenly near his ear, leaning onto the closest storage unit.

Karin snickers from behind them. Ichigo doesn't bother arguing; he knows it's not worth the trouble.

* * *

Ichigo doesn't take the ring off that night or the next. It's stupid. He knows better than to shine a spotlight on his inner thoughts. He'd laid himself bare for that brief moment in front of Grimmjow and it's not an occurrence he plans on repeating. By keeping it on, he's courting disaster. He knows this.

So it's stupid. _He's _stupid. Between random construction jobs for Ikumi's customers, he lets himself become bewitched by the colors marring the stone.

The blue doesn't disappear. It darkens, purples in splotches like a bruise, but it doesn't fade. Sometimes orange seeps through. That's more rare these days.

Once, there's red after he spots Grimmjow across the rooftops, carrying a thin package double his height towards the shop. He doesn't so much as glance at Ichigo, though they both can sense the pressure of the other's presence at this distance. The ozone burns with the weight of him.

He wonders if he's been training without him. Grimmjow has always been a powerhouse of coiled Reiryoku and lithe muscle, wide shoulders set in an intrepid line no matter the circumstances. Even while half dead, he'd been unflinching.

From where Ichigo stands on a roof half laid with ceramic tile, Grimmjow resembles a beast more than a man. A behemoth caged by skin and fury. He runs wildly through the air until the noon sun forces Ichigo to shield his eyes, and at the speeds he's going, the movement is enough to lose sight of him.

He's grown stronger, that much is certain. He hadn't noticed during their last spar and blames his lack of focus on the green. It's not a particularly angry color and that leaves few other emotions left to attribute to it. Grimmjow is expressive, sure, but only in shades of violence. Ichigo can't remember witnessing him experience anything else. The day in his bedroom, fingertips caressing his throat, his jaw, soft enough to trick Ichigo into thinking that maybe Grimmjow had been worried, notwithstanding.

Delusions are just that: a fantasy. Ichigo can't let himself become distracted by those.

But the green lingers on his mind. The pink, too. He doesn't know where to even begin with that one, though that doesn't stop him from feeling jealous. After days of endless blue, he'd give anything for a change.

He turns back to the tiles, measuring tape in hand. One of the other workers tosses him a bag of fasteners and when he catches it, that's when his wish comes true.

The red is the most disgusting color he's ever seen. Like congealed blood in a septic wound.

Ichigo trips over a horizontal batten in his haste to hide the ring behind his back, but it's unnecessary. No one here understands the significance. Only Grimmjow, and he's eight blocks away delivering another shipment to Urahara.

He finishes work in a daze, reporting to Ikumi along with the others and not hearing a single word that's said. By the time he's enclosed himself in his own room, he has several concerned text messages from her and a raging headache, but the stone is back to blue; it's almost a relief.

He still doesn't remove it.

Yuzu's kind enough to wait until Saturday to confront him.

"You wanna talk about it, or do you want to mope a bit longer?"

They're standing in the kitchen, Ichigo elbow-deep in sink water and prevented from escaping by a sponge in one hand and a plate in the other. Yuzu stands at his side, waiting patiently with a washrag.

He grimaces. "Am I that obvious?"

"Neither of us are very good liars." She takes the dish from him, smiling. "We take after mom."

Ichigo adds more soap into the water to give him an excuse to collect his thoughts. She was there the day he found the ring, and it's not like this is the most unusual phenomenon they've come across. This is hardly a blip on the radar compared to discovering Soul Society.

The suds spill over the edge of the countertop, wetting the front of his pants awkwardly. He ignores it, squirts in more soap. He doesn't want to let go of the bottle.

There's something too personal about the colors that prevents this conversation from being straightforward. Yuzu is the kindest, most empathetic person he's ever had the pleasure of knowing, and maybe that's why he doesn't want to burden her with thoughts of blue. It's not cowardly to withhold his problems when he hates worrying her as much as he does.

He apparently takes too long in his own head, because Yuzu sighs. "Is this about Grimmjow?"

"What?" It's so far out of left field that he sputters. "What does he have to do with this?"

"I was hoping you'd tell me."

"He's just an asshole. Nothing's changed." She hums in understanding and he prays that's true. She's never had the pleasure of hearing one of Grimmjow's many threats. "Look, it's not about _him_. I just don't know what to do without there being some sort of crisis to save the world from. How do I," he falls off and struggles around the thought, frowning. How does he tell his baby sister that he's lost without a trail of destruction and bloodshed to direct him? That her mundane, human life, the only one she's ever known, is not enough for him?

"Well," she begins, "no one said it was gonna be easy, but there's no harm in taking it slow, Ichigo. You can take as much time as you need to figure out how you feel and how to, uh," she makes a vague hand gesture, "close the gap. I'm sure there's some normal activities you can do. Like, go to the movies?"

"I'm not sure what good that'll do," he grumbles, but he doesn't argue with her. He hadn't truly expected her to comprehend, though he can't pretend she hasn't helped. His chest feels lighter, less impaired by the strain of his anxieties.

Three years since the Quincy invasion seems like a long time to still be this lost, but maybe she's right. This isn't a race. He's not competing against Grimmjow or Rukia for who can find their feet the fastest in this new, peaceful world.

"You'll figure it out. You always do." She resumes drying the dishes he passes her in comfortable silence until Isshin walks in wearing zebra striped pajamas and pads over to the refrigerator, nodding at them both.

"Don't mind me. Just getting a midnight snack," he says as he pulls out the tray of cupcakes Yuzu had baked yesterday.

"Dad," she whines. "Eating sweets before bed will make you fat."

"I don't know who taught you this blasphemy, but I won't allow it in my house!" He pauses with the icing already halfway inhaled, gaze drifting lower. "Yuzu, hunny, can you add diapers to the shopping list? Your brother's had an accident."

Ichigo looks down at his crotch and curses. "Shut up! It was the sink!"

His disbelieving jargle earns Isshin a solid spray of water from the pull-out faucet. It's the second time this week someone has accused him of relieving himself in his pants and if this starts a trend, Ichigo might consider resorting to a more severe tactic. As it is, his dad simply pouts his way back out of the room.

He snorts, imagining what Grimmjow would've looked like had he retaliated similarly the other day. Like a drowned cat, probably, and the picture makes him laugh harder than he has in weeks, folding himself over the counter, shirt soaking through across his chest to match his lower half.

"Ichigo! I just did laundry!"

Stifling his laughter through a great show of will, he wipes under his eyes. "Sorry, sorry. I'll do the next load."

"No, it's okay. I don't actually mind." She flicks more soap suds his way, leaning her hip against the cabinet to smile at him. He can't recall her ever looking so tall before. "Do you want to help me with my speech? I've still got some time before the assembly, but it's, well. I'm really nervous and I don't want to mess up in front of everybody. That would be, just, a nightmare!"

He can't stop himself from smiling too. "Yeah, Yuzu. Of course."

They store the plates and mugs away, and Ichigo begins to follow her upstairs before he stops, fingers coming to fiddle with the ring on reflex. Ichigo doesn't look at it as he slides it off and slips it into his sweatpants. He can't bear the thought of this moment being ruined by blue or orange or purple.

Or red. Please never again that terrible red.

He's not cured. His thoughts are still swirling, treacherous thunderclouds, fogging his brain with every step forward, but he can't keep worrying his siblings. That's the one thing he's always strived to avoid.

"You coming?" she calls over her shoulder, slowing her stride.

"Yeah, sorry. Just thinking."

Her smirk says she knows something she can't possibly be aware of, and it's adorable, so he doesn't give her shit like he normally would. He'll let her win this one. She deserves it.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N**: This was beta read again by the fantastic MaraX6960! Endless thank you's sent his way!

-.-.-

**The Moody Blues**

By MaethoMixup

**Chapter Two: **it belongs to the brave

-.-.-

Karin pulls him out of bed the next day by his ankle, only managing to tug a leg from beneath the comforter before giving up and simply throwing back the curtains. "Get up already, Ichigo! It's almost dinner time!"

"But it's Sunday," he whines, burying his face deeper into the pillows. His head is fog-heavy with too much sleep. Blinking into the soft cotton of his pillowcase barely helps, and whatever she's doing in the background, slamming open drawers and snooping around like he owes her money, it's too loud. He drags his sheets higher in the thin hope it'll muffle her racket.

"Not an excuse," she declares after a long moment in his closet, coming to stand beside the footboard again. "You'd normally be training today, what happened to that?"

Grimmjow and the stupid blue happened, that's what, and he doesn't need a mirror to tell him how obvious he's being. He resists removing the blanket while he wrestles his expression into submission. With the last vestiges of sleep reluctant to leave, it's a herculean task. Kept wooly and honest by his own sluggish brain.

Training involves Grimmjow, and just the thought of involving him in anything right now spikes his anxiety through the roof. Ichigo doesn't know how to face the man after revealing himself to him, because it's cliche, but blue has only ever represented one emotion. It's not hard to guess his psychological state and though Grimmjow is a stubborn, senseless bonehead, he's intelligent enough to accurately speculate and eager to assume the worst. And whatever _the worst_ is in this scenario, Ichigo can't prove him wrong without admitting the even worse truth.

That he's — Fuck. He's lonely. He's a one man pity party hiding under the covers from his little sister and it's pathetic. He's pathetic.

Pathetic and lonely, a winning combination he'd give anything to keep Grimmjow from discovering.

He hugs the sheet closer; admitting it to himself is almost as bad.

During the last two months, he hasn't seen anyone outside of his family besides Grimmjow and the usual shop attendees. A million ways to keep in touch yet still defaulting to text messages. At least Chad responds as quickly as his timezone difference allows. Uryu doesn't have that excuse, and Orihime…

She has a different excuse. Rukia likely has her own reasons too and here Ichigo has to concede, they're probably extremely reasonable and related to Soul Society's tedious political climate. He can't be mad at her for that. He can't. She's being a reasonable adult, handling her duties appropriately and easily without men or mood rings distracting her.

This isn't a race, he reminds himself. He shouldn't be jealous of her obligations and he shouldn't be lonely without her and the others here to distract him.

And yet, more than anything, more than these uncomfortable, aching feelings, he simply can't let Grimmjow know he's experiencing these red-blue emotions. They're a weakness. A flaw. Those are meant to be hidden, not dangled in front of a predator, ready to be ripped apart. It's better to leave him guessing than to confirm his suspicions, so meeting him for their weekly spar is out of the question.

"No point," he says, mouth tacky around the words, and purposefully casts off the blanket and swings himself upright before Karin can think about his response too deeply. His headache throbs in retaliation.

Ichigo squints through the dying sunlight until her blurry silhouette becomes a real person. Her arms are crossed, short hair pinned behind her ears. Mud covers her knees, but he's almost positive it hasn't rained in weeks. The air coming in from his open window is too dry for the drought to have ended this morning.

"Wanna explain that?"

"No." She points at his nightstand where the mood ring rests from the previous night. "_You_ wanna explain _that_?"

Ichigo hauls himself off the bed and skitters around them both, grabbing clothes off the top of his dresser. Wrinkled, but they smell clean enough.

He hadn't planned on wearing the ring again. His preoccupation with the colors is unhealthy, he's known that since sparring with Grimmjow over a week ago. With both his sisters noticing his mood, and worse, Karin apparently identifying the catalyst, he can't continue to transfix on the physical embodiment of his every negative thought. Can't continue advertising them, either, even if he refuses to see the one person he's most afraid of observing them.

Having his finger liberated doesn't ease the ache. His emotions are too raw. It's a wonder he hadn't noticed how deeply he'd sunk before the stone kindly announced it to the world, but it's impossible to ignore now.

Avoiding, though. He can definitely do that.

"No."

"Then I guess we're at a standstill," she says, making her way back to his bedroom door. "Hurry up and meet me downstairs, Yuzu needs us to run to the grocery. She forgot some things earlier."

He freezes with his shirt halfway off. "That's not like her."

She shrugs. "She's stressed. It happens." Then, Karin turns the corner and stomps her way downstairs, yelling, "In ten minutes I'm leaving without you!"

He makes quick work of his clothes, brushing his teeth and relieving himself before meeting her outside, two minutes to spare. Steps from blessed air conditioning into the type of heat reserved for summer mornings, hot and dry and seeping into his lungs. Sweat drips down his neck like a reflex, but it's still spring and nightfall is two hours away. This weather is an abomination.

He plucks at his neckline. Glares at Karin. She shoves herself off the paneled wall, so damned pleased with herself that he wants to give her a noogie or something to reaffirm her status as his little sister. It's too diabolical, using his supposed coddling against him to get out of carrying bags by herself.

"Let's see what we need…" She unfolds their shopping list, analyzing it with mock intensity, tapping the page as she reads each item aloud, "Spring onions, ginger, karashi…" Gasping dramatically, mouth agape, Ichigo can already tell he's going to hate what comes next. "Ichigo! I didn't know you needed diapers!"

He snatches the paper from her grasp and sure enough, written in his dad's handwriting is _diapers_ with a poorly drawn winky face next to it.

"Oh for fuck's sake! It was the _sink._"

"It's okay, Ichigo." She pats his back in false commiseration. "Accidents happen. No need to be embarrassed."

"I swear, Karin," he breathes out, letting the exasperated threat hang between them unsaid. He bunches the paper in his fist. His eyes stay on her. Her growing grin is suspicious enough that he backtracks, spells it out for her instead, "If you try adding diapers to our basket, I'll post your baby pictures on Myspace."

"No you won't," she says confidently, not even a pause. "You don't have an account. You're literally the most technologically challenged millennial I know."

"I was busy learning more important things! Computers don't defeat super villains, Karin."

She glances pointedly at the balled list to his jeans and back to him, smug. "Neither does pissing your pants, but look at you multitasking."

"You're such a _brat_," he says. Takes a step backwards towards the street.

"Says the _diaper needing poopyhead_."

"Okay, _teenage mutant lameass_."

"_Spongebob pisspants_."

"_Dork."_

_"Asshole."_

"Takes one to know one," he shoots back and she gasps. Checkmate.

"Well," she drags out, planting her feet on the pavement and her hands on her hips, "at least I'm not the dummy about to literally walk into their boyfriend."

The back of his calf hits something hard and he looks down, sees a pair of black boots and his stomach drops, swoops right out of his body and runs for the hills along with the rest of his sanity.

"Aw, you had an accident?" a voice drawls from behind him and Ichigo doesn't startle. He doesn't give him the satisfaction. He stands there, glaring at his neighbor's awning just to spite Grimmjow and his syrup-sweet insults. "Did baby boy take his nickname too seriously?"

His jaw clenches. Why is he even fucking here? Ichigo isn't ready to face him yet. Won't be ready until he's officially over this shit, or until this situation becomes a hazy nightmare he regrets on and off for the rest of his life.

He swears, he's never giving another gacha machine anything ever again, not even the dust from his wallet. They're a crime against humanity, plastic balls stuffed with anime and sin.

Karin pats him again, his arm this time, attention fixed past him. "Ichigo always takes you too seriously."

Grimmjow makes a noise, lordly low and pleased with himself. The fucker sounds like he's wearing a crown. "As he fucking should."

Ichigo refuses to turn. Keeps his lips pressed white against one another, twitching with the urge to refute them. He's not joining this conversation. It shouldn't even be happening.

"Yeah, see. I'm telling ya, Grimmboy, you gotta try a different tactic," she says easily, like _Grimmboy _is something that can be casually dropped into a conversation without some sort of warning. Like Grimmjow isn't going to skin her alive for butchering his name.

Ichigo pivots, arm raised to shield her stupidity from the Cero he can practically smell sizzling the atmosphere, but there's nothing. Only his overactive imagination and a cheshire smile dancing in the shadows; Grimmjow lounges on the edge of their brick planter, shaded by large fern leaves, arms folded behind his head. His feet cross at the ankles and stretch just far enough off the corner to pose as a roadblock. One heel nudges at his leg.

He's not in plain view from their front door, but there's no chance Karin hadn't seen him before this. She'd been out here for eight minutes before Ichigo's arrival, plenty of time to notice Grimmjow's long limbs. Not enough to buddy up with him.

It's been years since their last serious fight and Ichigo still doesn't know if _they're_ anything more than sparring partners. Grimmjow doesn't _do_ nice. It's not his _thing_.

His grin matches Karin's. Ichigo suspects collusion.

"No," he says to them both. "Cut it out. You're forbidden from doing whatever this is."

"You don't have that authority," Karin tells him and Grimmjow hums in agreement, which pretty much confirms it. They're up to something.

"Like hell I don't. I'm your brother."

"Uh huh," she agrees, "but dad overrides you."

Right, the wards. The Kido wards Grimmjow's been keyed into for a year without him noticing.

He really needs to ask Isshin about that.

"This is bullshit."

"You're just mad because you're dumb," she says, grabbing their grocery list back, smoothing out the wrinkles. "And oblivious. Like, this is getting embarrassing, Spongebob."

"Kid," Grimmjow growls out.

"Don't _kid_ me. You're no better."

"Is there some context here you want to fill me in on?"

"Nope!" Karin hops onto the sidewalk. "We were just having a little chat before you graced us with your presence."

"Right," he says as he watches her bat spuriously innocent lashes at him, then turns away. He knows a dead-end when he sees one. "Well Grimmjow, it was nice seeing your ugly mug, but we're leaving. Try to get lost while we're gone."

He sits up. Blinks dumbly at Ichigo. "But it's Sunday."

"Yeah, and?"

Grimmjow's on his feet and standing before the question ends, and this time Ichigo isn't imagining the sizzle, the rotting heat pulsing from his palms. Wisps of red Cero leak between his fingers. "I'm startin' to get real offended, Kurosaki. Don't pretend like you forgot about me."

Ichigo remains calm by sheer force of will. Houses line the street on either side of them, homes of neighbors he's known his entire life. His sister is an arm stretch away. "Put that shit away," he says, posture widening, weight balanced carefully. "I'm not fighting you here."

He would, if he had to, but Grimmjow knows better. Forcing a confrontation here would end their truce.

Some part of him thinks that would be for the best. Ichigo could avoid him and talks of blue forever if they reverted to enemies. There would be taunts across the battlefield, sure, but he'd never need to confirm anything.

A larger part is relieved when Grimmjow lets the rage bleed from his shoulders, Cero fizzling out in benign puffs. He shakes his hands to rid himself of the remnants and stuffs them into his pockets, eyes flickering between the two siblings and settling somewhere to the far right of them both, cheeks reddened, frown severe.

"Looks like you weren't planning on fighting me at all," Grimmjow practically mumbles.

Ichigo has to disguise his smile within a yawn, then yawns again because his fatigue still lingers, headache returning with a vengeance. He shrugs. "Yuzu is making dinner and I'm not missing that to go beat you."

"So you're a coward," he says, lacking his usual bite, almost resigned to that fact.

Ichigo tries not to let it bother him; he's not a coward. It's a tactical retreat to get his bearings, to pull himself together before Grimmjow tears him apart again with cruel sneers and knowing eyes. "No, I'm hungry. Big difference." Grabbing Karin by her shoulder, he spins her to face the other direction. "Come on, we've got groceries to buy."

She gives Grimmjow one last puzzling look. "But," she says, stringing the word out as far as her breath allows. "Okay, fine. I tried. See ya, Grimmjow!"

Her farewell goes unanswered, and that at least comforts Ichigo. They're too familiar. When that happened, he has no idea and that bothers him. He doesn't enjoy being out of the loop when it comes to Grimmjow in the human world, especially when it involves his family.

A hollow pit of unease opens in his chest. He'd known that Grimmjow has a life outside of Hueco Mundo and Ichigo, but it was an abstract sort of knowledge. Being confronted with it almost stings.

So lonely he feels betrayed by his sparring partner for having a more active social life than him. Now he really feels pathetic.

-.-.-

When they return, Yuzu is dropping vegetables into a boiling pot. Isshin sits nearby at the table, filling out his patient logs for the day.

Ichigo doesn't give him a chance to escape, he'd been stewing on this throughout their grocery trip. Mulling it over, analyzing it from every angle between one aisle and the next. "Why'd you give Grimmjow free access to the house?"

He doesn't look up, pen gliding to his next file without pause. "Because he's harmless."

"He tried to kill me! That's how we met!"

Karin snorts. "Well he certainly doesn't want that now."

He whirls towards her. "Yeah? And how _do _you know what he wants? Don't think for a second I didn't notice how chummy you two are all of the sudden."

"It's not su—"

"Suppertime yet! Right!" Karin shouts above Yuzu and flings herself further into the kitchen. "I'll help you prepare!" She frantically pulls three more pans from a lower cabinet and even Ichigo knows none of them are needed for this recipe. He shares a frown with Isshin.

Ichigo wants to know what the hell is going on, but he trusts his family even if Grimmjow is still a giant question mark. He can let Karin confess in her own time. "I'll start the rice."

"No!" she screeches louder than before, brandishing a lid in his direction. "Quit hovering and go upstairs! We're better cooks than you." She stomps over, a ball of teenage madness, and snags his bags from him, placing them on the counter with such force the bottles clack together.

Yuzu gives them both a concerned look from across the cutting board, lips pursed to resist interrupting them again. Karin's expression softens. "I'm just banishing him from the kitchen. He'll be allowed back when the food is done."

She nods. "Okay then. I'll come get you soon, Ichigo."

"Fine. I get it." He raises his hands in defeat. "See you both after I'm released from prison."

He goes upstairs, empties his pockets beside the desk lamp, and collapses onto his bed again, spine sagging into his mattress, pillow rolling onto his forehead. His sheets are cool enough to dry the sweat clinging to his neck, flyaways sticking in an itchy mess. He's too tired to care or move until Yuzu forces him to.

Caffeine would help. A run, a shower, a trip to Urahara's shop — they could all crack the shell of his lethargy, he knows.

He doesn't particularly _want_ to stop feeling tired though. Tired means he's too occupied to think properly, and sleep is as good as any other diversion for unwanted emotions. So he settles in deeper, welcomes the lull that overtakes him.

A frigid weight settles on his stomach, bursting the air from his chest in one, loud whoosh. His eyes snap back open.

The fading sun glints angrily across the unnatural blue of Grimmjow's gaze. He leans over Ichigo, a solid, unwanted mass of thighs locking his arms to his torso at awkward angles under their oppressive proportions. Hands splay on either side of his head.

"I gave you a chance earlier. Thought maybe this wasn't what it is, the great Ichigo Kurosaki with his tail between his legs." Rage drips like venom from his lips, hovering above him, seething. "You're gotten real soft, living a cute little domestic life because you're too scared to let little girls buy their own vegetables. That better not be why you're avoiding me."

His irritation is palpable, the air thick with tension, but his breath is a chilly breeze against his spring heated skin and Ichigo struggles to deny the comfort of it. It doesn't smell like anything. Not toothpaste or green tea or any food he can recognize. Nothing there for him to like or be disgusted at, only a cold, insistent presence, otherworldly and decidedly not human, weird and too close.

It makes it hard to match his fury or dismiss his accusation, because both are justified and Ichigo can't _think_.

"I've been dealing with shit," he finally manages. "I don't have time for you."

"Make time," he growls. "Unless you like playing with hammer and nails more than my sword." He shifts, pressing himself more firmly against Ichigo to flash the wrapped metal handle of his Zanpakutō. The sheath stabs weakly into his knee, a tangible annoyance to focus on compared to the disorienting weight on top of him. Concentrating on it feels like the safer of the two options.

Grimmjow continues, his face dipping closer, nothingness growing pungent, "Don't think I didn't see you pining on the rooftop the other day. If you want a fight, _take_ it. Your pussyfooting is pissing me off."

"Everything pisses you off."

"Not everything,"

"Just me?"

"_Especially_ you," he clarifies. "You're a fucking mess, Kurosaki."

He doesn't need Grimmjow fucking Jaegerjaquez to tell him that. The last two weeks have made that abundantly clear.

Ichigo manages to free his limbs in four full body twists and pushes on his bare chest, idly wondering where the black zippered vest Grimmjow's accustomed to wearing has gone. His muscles are smooth marble, cold and unresponsive to his touch, only moving an inch against his human strength. He presses harder. "Get off."

Grimmjow has the gall to laugh. His body vibrates with it, resonating, dazzling Ichigo with the dichotomy of cruel noise and soft sensation. "What if I don't want to?" he asks. "You gonna make me?"

He reclines back regardless of his words, but he doesn't lift himself off. Perches his boney ass on his abdomen, leering.

Ichigo can't remember ever observing Grimmjow from this angle. Under him, trapped, his towering brawn rippling with every movement. He's menacing. A terror built for bloodshed sitting impatiently for a response. Eyes the shade of blue Ichigo can't unsee.

Grimmjow runs his fingertips up Ichigo's bicep, his forearm, and circles around his wrist, thumb firm against his pulse point. He seems enthralled by the echoes, enamored by the pulse of life thrumming through his veins. It's curious. They both bleed. Grimmjow has his own heartbeat, but does his icy touch indicate a slower heart rate or something else, and if the latter, why the fascination?

Another sign of his vulnerability, maybe. Ichigo can't help but notice what a precarious position this is, wrist held with enough force to remind him how easily his bones could be crushed, yet tender. Painless. Tauntingly tame.

He wonders if Grimmjow can feel his rhythm quicken beneath the ministrations. He must, because his thumb digs deeper, resting uncomfortably between tendons. Ichigo grits his teeth.

The badge is on his desk, too far away to reach if Grimmjow decides to turn the pressure into an attack.

Just like on the sidewalk, he won't. It's odd how confident Ichigo is of this, but he knows Grimmjow likes a challenge more than the victory, though he certainly doesn't complain if he earns both. It's what makes him such a worthy opponent. It's why at his weakest, soul trapped within his human body with only his Quincy abilities to rely on, he doesn't fear the possibilities. Grimmjow doesn't want him unless he's at his most powerful. Nothing else is more thrilling than winning an impossible fight.

Ichigo understands the feeling, maybe a bit too well. Yet there's no enemy left for him to overcome. Just Grimmjow and his violent, persistent demands, but Ichigo can't decide if escalating this into the fight he's obviously angling for would be considered winning or losing. He was supposed to be evading all contact with him, not wrestling on his bed.

"Speak up, Kurosaki," he says. His thighs tighten around his ribcage, the worst, most confusing hug Ichigo's ever received. "I've been patient enough."

Grimmjow moves his other hand upwards, wrapping around his elbow as if preparing to snap it. A sharp, metal chill startles Ichigo's gaze to the touch.

The mood ring sits on his pinky again, the weirdest mix of pink and yellow he's ever seen. Which is almost enough to distract him from the fact that _the ring is on his pinky again._

"You fucking thief!" Ichigo breaks the hold on his wrist and wraps an arm around Grimmjow's waist, hips thrusting up to dislodge him, creating enough space to toss the jackass off the bed in a swirl of cloth and curses.

He uses the momentum to roll into a half crouch and sneers from his new place on the floor. "It's not stealing if you forgot you owned it."

"I took it off last night!" Ichigo untangles his feet from the sheets and stands. He's not sure if he wants to punch him, it feels too much like rewarding him. Besides, his badge is still inconveniently placed on the other side of Grimmjow, and the ring isn't worth the structural damage he'll have to repair later. It was destined to rot at the bottom of a drawer before being stolen. "And that's not how the law works, asshole."

He scoffs. "Human laws don't apply to me."

Grimmjow's right. Of course he is. Ichigo can't exactly call the police on a being they can't arrest. Not that he would, but the principle still stands. "Yeah, well, it wouldn't hurt you to have some basic human decency."

"It fucking might," he snaps. "You abandoned it for being _blue._"

"It's a ring. It can't have abandonment issues."

"It's symbolic," he says, like it's obvious.

There's not a damn thing obvious about this situation, and Ichigo is gearing up to tell him so, but Yuzu pokes her head into the room, amusement written across her features despite her best effort to appear serious. "Tell the invisible burglar that it's time for dinner. They're welcome to stay if they promise not to steal our kitchen appliances. I need those."

"Grimmjow can't make that promise. He's got a bad case of the sticky fingers."

"Fuck you, my hands are _pristine_."

She wiggles her nose in disgust. "Gross. Tell him to use a sock like a normal man."

"Have you ever heard of tissues?" Ichigo asks, but quickly shakes his head when he remembers who exactly he's talking to, striding over to push her back into the hallway. "No, don't answer that. This conversation is over, shoo. I'll be down in a minute."

As soon as the door is closed again, Grimmjow yanks him backwards. "What the fuck were you two implying?"

He tries for diplomacy, "I'll tell you if you give me my ring back."

"I don't make deals with idiots. Besides," Grimmjow trails off, glancing down pointedly and scowling, "it was probably about my dick. You're always talking about dicks."

"That was one time, _months_ ago, and I was drunk."

"You ranted about shriveled dick syndrome for an hour," Grimmjow reminds him, completely skipping over the fact that he'd sat beside him listening to Ichigo the entire time. Which says more about him than himself, Ichigo is sure. Half sure, at least. It's not like he can fully recall that vodka fueled night. "I'm right, aren't I?"

"Fine, okay. Now it's two times. Whatever. But you would bitch too if the cold made your cock look like a croissant." Judging by his raised eyebrow, Grimmjow probably doesn't know what a croissant even is, but Ichigo lacks the energy to explain pastries to an arrancar. It also reminds him that there's food waiting for him downstairs, so Ichigo kicks the door back open and stabs a finger towards his desk before walking over the threshold. Says, "Return it or I will kick your ass," knowing full well the promise of an ass kicking is more likely to make Grimmjow dig in his heels and piss on cornflakes until Ichigo follows through with his threat. That's the whole reason he'd invaded his house and stolen his ring to begin with: to force Ichigo into the fight he'd tried outrunning.

Grimmjow grins, celebrating his victory with ease, all eager and arrogant like he'd expected it. Licks his lips in a predatory slowness that has Ichigo on tenterhooks, sweating from his hairline in anticipation.

This is bloodlust. This is what they have in common. Ichigo can evade him all he wants, but they always come back to this pin drop tension, ready to forget everything and fall into each other blades first. His hand itches for Zangetsu and only the scent of something fried and greasy keeps Ichigo from dragging Grimmjow out the window.

"Don't keep me waiting this time, Kurosaki!" he calls out before the door swings shut on his cackling.

-.-.-

Ichigo isn't given a chance to keep him waiting; Grimmjow is commandeering his couch in a wide, lazy sprawl when Ichigo stumbles through the clinic and into his living room the next night covered in mud and dust from a day of working odd jobs for Ikumi. Yuzu and Karin sit cross-legged on the floor by his feet, poster supplies scattered around them in hazardous piles of loose markers and glue bottles.

He tiptoes closer without the girls noticing his entrance, but Grimmjow tenses, the arm thrown over the back cushions a sudden hard line instead of a flop of thick muscles. From this angle, Ichigo can only see the curve of his unmasked cheek. He's frowning. That's not unusual.

The glitter streaking across his face _is_. It catches the light all wrong, reflects the muted television in speckled glimmers. Turns him soft and doe-eyed and _nice_. Approachable, almost. In stark contrast compared to yesterday's outrage.

Ichigo can make a lot of assumptions here, most of them trouble, but he's tired and neither Karin or Yuzu look like they're being held hostage, so he collapses onto the armrest, back pressing into the curl of a fist. It flattens under him, but it doesn't retreat. No, Grimmjow never does that. Leaves it there like a challenge instead.

There's no warmth radiating from him like a normal man's would. Ichigo tries not to let the chill gooseflesh his skin.

"Go away, Grimmjow. Thieves aren't welcome here."

The twins pivot from their project, Yuzu smiling shyly, Karin scrutinizing his slouched form. They shrug at each other just as quickly and get back to work, his halfhearted wave left unacknowledged. He sighs.

"Come now, baby boy, no need for name calling," Grimmjow purrs, dragging his attention back by the hook of his slow cadence. His head's fallen back against the couch, half tilted towards Ichigo. The smeared glitter will probably never vacuum out. "Haven't you ever heard that sharing is caring?"

It takes him a moment to connect the dots; he's too worn out to banter properly. He'd spent hours painting an old apartment complex various shades of eggshell and, while not strenuous work, it drained him of whatever good cheer he'd managed to scrounge up before leaving the house this morning. Monotonous tasks are always the worst. Not enough to distract him, too much to fully shut off his brain.

He rolls his eyes, trying not to yawn. "Oh, now you've got manners. How convenient."

"I ain't got many. Gotta save them up and use them right."

"Use them _right_ somewhere else," he grumbles. "I'm not in the mood for whatever's going on here."

"Never the right mood, never the right time." Grimmjow leans in, licks his lips. Eyes no longer prey-like under his lashes as he cages him against the cushion with one hand still behind him, the heady weight of his presence pressing into his side. Ichigo scoots as far away as he can without completely falling off. This is too much like yesterday, instincts at war with each other. Every action Ichigo can think to respond with feels like the wrong choice, like Grimmjow has the deck stacked against him and no matter which card Ichigo picks, he'll lose.

"I can be real mean if you'd rather. You know I'm good for it." Grimmjow lowers his voice, though the room is too quiet for it to do any good, and Karin too nosy. She's been coloring the same spot for minutes now, ears practically perked in their direction.

Sharp nails drag against his spine, scratching upwards through the thin cotton of his shirt. The mood ring catches on the fabric, taunting him, certifying his statement with every inch conquered. It shouldn't piss him off. Ichigo didn't want to wear the ring again, but he sucks in a breath and flushes despite himself. Heated from anger, he thinks. It must be. Emotion bubbles beneath the surface of his thoughts too chaotically to properly label, but this adrenaline heatwave is similar enough to the intensity of battle-hardened fury.

And Grimmjow always pisses him off. It's what he _does_. Goads him, needles his composure until Ichigo forgets to withhold himself, throwing everything he has into their fights, safety and caution discarded for bruises. Beats him into the ground until only that wicked smile remains unbloodied, and Grimmjow relishes in it. Keeps coming back for more. Keeps pissing him off just to witness Ichigo's control come undone again and again.

This unraveling is the same. The anger isn't. He has enough sense left to recognize that.

Doesn't prevent his curious glance at his own empty finger, expecting to see a red matching his cheeks. Grimmjow chuckles knowingly. "Still mine, Kurosaki. Gotta make good on your promise if you want it back." Metal digs into his shoulder blade, underlining his words with muted pain, not quite enough to bruise. Toeing the line like he always does when Ichigo is human.

It's kind of touching, really. In a weird _I wanna murder you when you're prepared to resist _sort of way.

Karin groans. "Really? Stop flirting, we're working here!"

Ichigo startles forward, peeling himself off Grimmjow's hand and almost tipping himself onto the floor face first. "What?" he asks dumbly and too high pitched. He coughs to clear his throat but doesn't know what else to say in their defense. She's seen enough rom-coms to know flirting is more complimentary than what Grimmjow is even capable of.

Yuzu seems to have the same thought. She squints at the glitter-formed face floating over the couch cushions. She can't see Grimmjow, and that's likely why he's covered in it. That doesn't explain why he'd let her attack him with arts and crafts, but he knows he'll never get a direct answer from anyone here if he asks. Just more cryptic bullshit and subject changes.

"Is he even any good at flirting?" she asks.

Grimmjow sputters, flying off the couch to glare into her unseeing face. She holds her ground with a smile.

"Listen here, you little shit—"

"She can't hear you," Karin reminds him.

"—if I wanted to seduce your shitfuck of a brother—"

"_Still_ can't hear you."

"—he'd already be on his knees begging for my cock."

"Dude," Ichigo says, because what the fuck. What the _fuck_. "They're sixteen."

"I _wish_ I couldn't hear you. Wow."

"What did he say?" Yuzu asks Ichigo, sees the whitewashed horror written all over his features and changes tactics. "Karin, what did he say? Was he being rude?"

"He's being an idiot, that's what."

"Isn't that normal for him?"

Grimmjow twists his glare onto Ichigo as if the twins are his fault. "I'm gonna punch a couple of holes in them if they don't shut the fuck up. I didn't come here for this shit."

"Yeah?" That's a good segue into another question, and an even better disruption from the imagery Grimmjow had so helpfully painted for them. Because what in the actual fuck. "What _did_ you come here for? You finally gonna spit it out now that you're in a sharing mood?"

Ichigo monitors the ring instead of his face; he knows from experience which of the two is more honest. He recognizes the burnt orange of what he assumes is embarrassment and the mysterious pink, but the green is a new tint, lighter than the one that haunts his dreams with fangs and claws. Soft and approachable like Grimmjow was when Ichigo first arrived. He wishes he had thought to check the colors then.

Karin pipes up before Grimmjow's finished muddling through whatever thoughts are creating that kaleidoscope, "Does it matter? Get on the floor already. We have to finish these flyers before Friday."

Ichigo slides down because he was already half off anyways and not because he hasn't learned how to say no to them. "What's on Friday?"

"Don't worry about it," Yuzu says quickly, silencing Karin before she has the chance to respond. She hands him a packet of markers. "Just color where we direct you to."

Karin does the same for Grimmjow with a pair of scissors. "You too! This is an emergency, all hands on deck." And she must have some sort of blackmail on the arrancar because he snatches them and flops beside Ichigo, grumbling insults at her, but he still _does_ it. Sits cross-legged, knee jabbing into Ichigo's thigh, ready to cut letters and shapes out of construction paper like a good little boy. It's fucking surreal.

Ichigo takes a flyer from the closest pile. Their printer was top of the line technology before the turn of the century, now too old to do them the courtesy of printing in color. As it is, the outlined clipart images are patchy and streaked. The text is mostly legible though, asking the student body to vote for Yuzu and detailing the reasons why they should. Dependable, hardworking, and all the usual adjectives politicians use to describe themselves mixed in with a promise of financial fairness to all school clubs. It's solid work and Ichigo is more than a little proud.

He rushes to pull out a marker before he does something embarrassing like tear up and hug her in front of Grimmjow. They're not an affectionate family normally anyways. They'll probably think he's having a mental breakdown after witnessing his last week of mild panic.

In his haste, the box spills across the carpet and he curses, making a grab for them before they invade the other work areas. His sisters both laugh at him, but Grimmjow sighs, grabbing the blue and yellow markers before Ichigo can. "Didn't think you were clumsy."

"Just distracted," he admits.

Grimmjow stares at him, verifying the validity with eyes alone. Ichigo tries to appear absolutely, strictly neutral, no emotions laid bare, no ring to betray him.

Doesn't seem to matter. Grimmjow's grin widens into a savage slant. "Gonna spit out what's on your mind, Kurosaki? Since you've got that basic human decency, shouldn't be hard for you."

"Not this shit again." Ichigo takes back the markers and throws an elbow into the motion, hitting his ribs with enough force to hurt most men. Grimmjow doesn't even flinch.

"Come on, it's only polite," he mocks, humored by his own impression. Then, a lightning struck idea hits him mid-laugh and he leans close again, arms colliding from shoulder to forearm. "Unless it's something you don't want your sisters to hear. Thinking about what I said?"

"What you—" Ichigo starts, realizing too late what he's referring to. He had successfully flung the thought of sucking dick to the furthest corner of his mind, left to rot with his other intrusive thoughts. Now, he has to fight not to picture it, to reimagine yesterday with less clothes and words and more hands gripping tight, fisted into hair instead of around a wrist.

"Holy shit," he says, shoving his stupid, triumphant face out of his personal space so he can breathe, too confused with his icy touch so close. "What is wrong with you?"

He's not even offended, just continues to laugh at him. "Not a damn thing, but I sure as shit can't say the same for you."

"I second that," Karin says suddenly, and raises a brow when Ichigo gapes in her direction. "What? I'm sitting like four feet from you two. Did you expect me _not_ to eavesdrop? Do you even know me?"

"And you're taking his side?"

"Well, he's the only one actually helping."

He looks over and, sure enough, Grimmjow is now stabbing a piece of paper with his scissors. "He's not even using them correctly! How is that helping?"

"He's trying and it's cute," she declares and Grimmjow stabs it again with the blades pointed in her direction. "His continuous failures are endearing."

"This is your head," he clarifies with another attack. The sheet rips in two.

"Please stop wasting supplies," Yuzu asks, holding up a second pair to demonstrate how to use them. "Follow along the dotted lines and hand the pieces to me so I can glue them on. And you," she swirls to snip them at Ichigo, "get to coloring."

He takes a second to watch Grimmjow struggle to fit his fingers into the handle, taking careful, experimental cuts before assaulting the traced lettering. Ichigo isn't surprised he treats the task like he does every other: aggressively.

They work like this for another hour, in silence save for the sounds of their workload. Karin changes the television channel some time after Ichigo's tenth flyer, from news to a late night drama made worse without audio or subtitles to rationalize what's happening on screen.

Ichigo eventually catches sight of lavender in his peripheral, this hue familiar enough to have a theory on. "These shows aren't realistic," he explains to Grimmjow without pausing his marker obligations. "They're written for the shock value."

"So chocolate isn't lethal?"

"Not usually, unless you're allergic."

He snips a particularly vicious slice into the next page. "Bet that's how you'll die, something dumb and avoidable."

"Mmm, maybe." It's something he's thought before too. Impossible not to, after surviving the improbable. "That'd be my luck."

"Not luck. Skill," Grimmjow corrects. "Not a damn thing is powerful enough to kill you except for your own stupidity."

"Throwing in the towel already? Thought you were trying to defeat me."

"No," he says simply. "Not exactly."

Ichigo peeks sideways at him. There's nothing new to see. Grimmjow wears the same black and white variation of clothing, styles his hair in the same slapdash fashion. The glitter is different, but he's gotten used to the sight after sitting with their legs pressed together for as long as they have tonight. Not a single outward change to represent this earth shattering revelation.

He thought the entire foundation of their acquaintance was based on Grimmjow's desire to overcome him. Their last two years of interactions were on the training grounds, an endless cycle of fighting, cursing, and recovering, only interrupted by the occasional surprise encounter where only words and alcohol were thrown at each other. And before that, they were enemies forced into an alliance due to a common goal. Nothing to hint at anything deeper than a mutually beneficial rivalry.

So whatever _not exactly_ means, it's more than he'd calculated for. Reorienting himself for this new worldview seems too daunting to do in public, so he evades enlightenment through the raw power of diligent coloring. It goes as well as he could've hoped for.

Which is to say, he doesn't stop incessantly brainstorming answers until Grimmjow plucks the marker from his grasp. "You ruined the tip."

Ichigo grimaces at the flattened felt. "Oh," he says pathetically. The flyer he'd been working on is a disaster, too.

"Stop getting distracted. Pea-brain said not to waste supplies."

Karin snorts, attempting to hide her smile behind her hands. They both know how happy Yuzu would be if she could hear him.

Ichigo, however, is just confused. Seems to be the theme these days. "Why does that matter to you?"

"It doesn't," he says, capping the marker and tossing it to die with his paper scraps. "But you'll shit yourself again if you piss her off."

"Look at you being a good samaritan."

"Told you, I got manners. If you paid attention you would know that already."

"Says the thief," Ichigo counters. Still, in the process of reevaluating their relationship, he adds that to the list of questions. Has Grimmjow been more courteous than he's given him credit for? He's always been careful of his strength while Ichigo is least able to defend against it, that's true, and their spars are scheduled on the days most convenient for Ichigo. He'd simply assumed that was because Grimmjow lacked any hobbies to keep him entertained in the downtime between his duties to Tier Harribel and Urahara, but he'd proved yesterday that he has a life outside of that. What if he's been purposefully accommodating this whole time? Would another day be more preferable for him?

Knowing he hadn't considered asking before this realization makes Ichigo uncomfortable. He had taken Grimmjow's antagonism for granted.

Grimmjow goes back to cutting out an H. "You good to eat dirt after this?"

Ichigo almost says yes just to get this over with already, but a yawn reminds him of the day he's had. "Nah, too tired," he says, and bites his bottom lip, fumbling for another marker. He's never the one to ask, and if they've actually been friends this whole time then that makes him an asshole, so — "Tomorrow?"

"Can't." The answer is immediate. Ichigo tries not to let disappointment cloud him. He's told Grimmjow _no_ enough times that it's only fair.

But Grimmjow looks aggravated saying that, so the reason is obvious. "Why are you running errands for Urahara anyways?"

"Got debts to pay, sweetcheeks. Hueco Mundo didn't save itself."

Ichigo blinks at him. No good deed goes unpaid with him, he's known that since Grimmjow protected Orihime after she regrew his arm. If this is about Hueco Mundo, then there's more people than just Urahara he's beholden to.

Dread sinks into his bones.

"That why you're over here so often? Feeling like you owe me too?"

"I don't owe _you_ shit," he says. Slaps the words into the air with enough scorn to sting and it's a _relief_. Ichigo's whole body sags against the cushions. "Try not to miss me too hard, gonna be gone for a few days. I'll trash you after Friday's done with."

"Friday?" he asks, brows scrunching together. "Seriously, what's happening on Friday?"

"Don't worry about it," Yuzu singsongs as she puts the final touches on her poster, dotting more glitter across the top.

Karin winks reassuringly at him and the stone is pure chartreuse when he looks at Grimmjow for help so yeah, no. Fuck that. Now he's actually worried.


End file.
